


Short sick Sammy fics

by Greeneyes_fan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Allergies, Gen, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 06:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17177552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greeneyes_fan/pseuds/Greeneyes_fan
Summary: A small collection of sick Sammy snippets.





	1. A Sammy's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is a little too eager to make a good impression on the neighbors, especially when feverish

Sam had been fighting a cold for two days, sniffling and coughing. He made it to work, though, refusing to slow down and insisting he didn't really feel bad. The only concession he made was a bundle of tissues in his left pants pocket and a bottle of hand sanitzer in his right, which he used like it was going out of style.

But late Thursday evening, Sam staggered in the door and fell in a heap on the couch, limbs spread out in all direction. He drew in a deep breath, but it apparently set off his sore throat, as he began coughing harshly into the armrest.

"Cold worse?" Dean prodded.

Sam nodded with his fist, not bothering to move his head.

"The couch is too small for you to sleep on. Get upstairs and into bed. Do you want to eat something?"

Sam ignored him, sinking even deeper into the cushions.

Dean pulled a pencil out of the can by the door and began poking his brother above the ear with the eraser. "Move it, Sammy."

Sam grabbed at it, but Dean was quicker. After a few rounds of the pencil fight, Sam's hair stuck up in all directions, like a baby bird just beginning to grow its full plumage. Finally Sam gave in, pulled off his sneakers and climbed up the stairs.

Once in bed, Sam curled into a ball on the center of the bed and drew the blankets tightly around him. He sniffled, reached a hand out halfheartedly. Dean took pity on him, moved the tissue box closer. "You look like crap," he pointed out helpfully.

Sam just glared back.

"Yeah, I'm going to get juice and meds, and you're going to drink both of them."

The glare deepened to a proper bitchface.

**************

It was the coughing that woke Dean. He'd finally, finally managed to get Sam hydrated, medicated, and sleeping before fixing himself a sandwich and climbing into his own bed. Of course, a whole--Dean checked the clock--three hours later, the cold had apparently woken Sam up again. Worse, from the sounds of it, he was out of bed and downstairs.

Dean found him in the living room, kneeling in a corner. As he headed over, Sam let out a violent, tearing sneeze. Dean could see he was running a rag across the top of the bookshelf, removing a thick layer of black dust. They kept the floor clean, and the kitchen, but dust on the bookshelf was something that they just didn't have time to worry about, normally.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"Neighbors are coming over," Sam sounded horribly congested, and his face was flushed a deep pink. Clearly the fever was getting worse, and making him loopy if not actually delirious.

"Yeah, that's three weeks away. Somehow I think dusting the bookshelves can wait for a time that isn't after midnight." And a dust mask, you allergic moron.

Sam just blinked at him. And sneezed again, covering his face with his grimy hands.

Dean put a hand under his elbow. "Bed, Sam."

"But," Sam sniffled, "I'm dot tired." Dean instinctively grabbed Sam's hand before it could rub more dirt onto his face.

No, you're fever-manic. And your face is covered in dust. Awesome.

"I should get the laundry going." Sam sniffled again. "It's all over the floor."

"Listen, if the neighbors are coming over soon, you need to shower, right?"

"I do?"

"Yeah." Dean shoved a tissue at him. "Blow your nose and go shower."

Sam blew his nose, looking a bit confused.

Dean shook his head."Put down the dust rag. Walk up the stairs. Get in the shower. Take your clothes off first."

Sam nodded, glassy-eyed. Dean shoved the coffee table back into its proper place (apparently Sam had felt the need to clean underneath it) and headed up the stairs after him. He grabbed the thermometer from the first-aid kit under the sink, but he already knew what it would show. Any fever below 102, Sam was grouchy and tired, but functional. Anything above 103 would knock him out for the count. In between, however, he'd turn hyperactive, unable to rest, obsessed with finishing things. A few years back, he'd come down with the flu right after a long and difficult hunt, and spent six hours trying to hunt a monster that had already been ganked.

Still, if Dean could get him to lie down, he'd probably fall asleep eventually. Of course, that was a pretty big "if."

Dean could hear the water running behind the bathroom door. Through it, he could hear Sam sneezing loudly, sinuses working desperately to clear out the dust he'd already breathed far too much of.

"Finish your shower quick," Dean yelled. Sam might decide that he had to clear out so Dean could have a turn, or that the neighbors would be over at any moment. Either way, it'd keep the kid moving. He grabbed a clean t-shirt and boxers from Sam's drawer and dropped them in the bathroom for him, snatching the dust-covered shirt and jamming it out of the way in the hamper. The last thing Sam's sinuses needed was for him to put that thing back on.

Ten minutes later, Sam was out and clean. His hair was still dripping wet, and his nose and eyes were still red and running, and his cheeks were even more flushed. To Dean's relief, however, his face had lost its unnatural animation, and he merely looked sick and tired and dazed. Dean grabbed him by the elbow and steered him to bed.

"Come on, Sammy. I'll get you some nice…" he felt the heat coming off Sam's back and winced. "Cold water, eh?"

Sam nodded.

Dean dropped him off under the covers, then fetched the water and set it on the nightstand next to the tissue box. As he turned to leave again, Sam grabbed he hem of his shirt. "Stay?" Sam asked, voice rough with congestion and approaching sleep.

"You want me to sleep with you, you giant furnace?"

Sam's fist tightened on his shirt. Dean carefully pried himself loose, turned out the light, and climbed in behind him. Safer this way, no more sleepwalking. Sam's overheated arm found him and held on like a lifeline.


	2. Treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comment-fic prompt: Dean says Sam's fever is so high they could fry an egg on his forehead. Slightly delirious Sam tests this theory

“God, Sammy, you're so hot I could fry an egg on your forehead!”

That was what Dean had said, about two hours before Sam got one of the craziest ideas that had ever crossed his mind--testing it.

So now Sam's sitting on the kitchen floor, hair matted with egg, with egg running down his forehead and dripping onto his collar, sniffling and rubbing the back of his hand against his face.

Dean just stared for a moment. At first he thought Sam had decided to make breakfast, but he couldn't figure out a) Why a guy so sick he'd refused soup an hour ago had chosen scrambled eggs for breakfast, or b) how even Sam had managed to drop an egg on his head accidentally.

"Um, what are you doing?"

"Wanted to see if I could really fry it."

"My God, you're like a five year old when you're sick, you know that? It's a saying, moron."

"Oh."

"All right, let's wash your hair."

"No!"

"It's going to dry like that. And then I'll have to cut it off," Dean threatened.

"'S better to leave it in longer."

"Why would anyone leave an egg in their hair?"

"Jess did."

At the mention of Jess, Dean prepared for the tears to start, but Sam looked more wistful than grieved or angry. "Why did Jess put eggs in her hair?" Dean asked gently.

"Made it shiny. She'd mix up this stuff with egg and I don't know what in it, and then she'd leave it in for like an hour. It was real soft after." Sam's hands stroke an imaginary head in memory.

"Well, your hair is just a little bit shorter than hers, so it's probably been in long enough. Come on, shower time."


	3. Operation Warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is sick and feverish and shivery and cold. However, he thinks that Dean is cold so he tries to give him his scarf or wrap him up in blankets, until Dean is just like, maybe you should cuddle with me in bed to keep me warm.

"The heat must be broken in here," says Sam, plaintively.

"What are you talking about?" Dean looks up, sees the hectic color in Sam's cheeks, arms wrapped tightly around his chest, and groans inwardly. Kid's got a fever.

Okay, serious or nuisance? Sam hasn't had any major wounds lately, so it's probably not a wound infection. Dean leans over his brother's shoulder and puts a hand on his neck casually. He's definitely feverish, but not dangerously so. Now, what's wrong with him?

As if to answer Dean's question, Sam abruptly turns his head and starts to cough. Okay, he's got a cold then. And from the way he's been pacing the past couple hours, the fever's making him manic rather than sleepy.

Awesome. Manic sick Sam. Just what this night needed.

Sam reaches into his duffle and pulls out a hoodie. At least Sam is trying to get warm, that's something. Instead of putting it on, though, Sam turns around and hands it to him.

"Sam, why are you giving me your shirt?"

"You're always colder than me, so you must be freezing in here."

"Yeah, except when you're sick."

"I'm not sick." Sam's face is guileless. "The heat's just broken. Now, put this on." He starts stuffing the shirt over his brother's head, squishing the points of his spiked hair.

Rather than get into some ridiculous wrestling match, Dean slides into the hoodie. "Why don't you put one on, too? And maybe have a seat on the bed. I think it's warmer on this side of the room."

Sam isn't having any of it, though. He's pacing back and forth across the room, hands gesturing wildly and eyes too bright. Why had Dean not noticed earlier that his little brother was getting sick? Possibly before he got quite so wound up?

Well, however it happened, Sam won't get better until he sleeps. Which might require some sneakiness on Dean's part.

"Look, I guess I am pretty cold," Dean says, pulling back the covers on his bed. "And the hoodie helps, but you know what would help more?"

"What?" Sam asks earnestly.

"If you'd come under the blankets with me. You know, share body heat. Only way to keep warm, with the heat broken." Dean pressed his hand to the perfectly warm radiator and bit back a grin.

Sam all but dove for the blankets. Once under, he twitched and turned and flipped around nonstop until finally Dean threw an arm over his chest. Finally, Sam curled into a ball, wrapped tightly in blankets.

By the time Sam stopped shivering, both were deeply asleep.


	4. The Wrong Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Please I want allergic Sam mowing a lawn.

The sun beat down on Locust Grove, GA as Sam worked through his first day as a landscaper at the town's convention center. He'd pulled off his shirt once the sweat started to soak through, relying on a thick layer of sunscreen to protect his chest and back, less tanned than his face. The straw hat he'd borrowed from a fellow worker also helped keep him cool, and the supervisor was perfectly willing to let the men spray themselves with hoses on break.

Of course, heat wasn't Sam's biggest problem. Nor was figuring out how to use the mower. And, camouflaged by his work, no one gave him a second look as he searched the whole facility for a sign of Evan Holt's spirit.

The biggest problem was the damned grass.

Neither Sam nor Dean had realized what an issue it would be. Sure, Sam was allergic to grass, especially right after it had been mowed, but his allergy wasn't that bad.

Somehow, Sam probably should have realized that his not-so-bad allergy might get a little worse if he was walking two feet behind the damned mower.

The sneezing had started just a few minutes in. He'd tried to cover his face with the shirt, but that just made him feel like he was suffocating, without actually blocking any of the pollen. Before he'd finished the first row of mowing, his eyes had begun to itch, and his nose started to run.

Three hours later, Sam's eyes streamed so badly he could hardly see. The fistful of napkins in his pocket were long since soaked through from dabbing at his nose. And of course, he hadn't seen hide, hair or wisp of Evan Holt.

Another sneezing fit hit him, and he didn't dare keep mowing. Sam stopped and killed the engine, pulled out the soaked napkins, and began to sneeze. etchoo, epchoo, ah and it was stuck. His eyelids fluttered. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to either release the sneeze or drive it away. A squirrel popped out, staring curiously at Sam's knee.

And the sneeze burst out, doubling him over and sending the squirrel running for cover.

One thought dominated Sam's mind, Next time, I get the indoor job, and Dean can check the grounds!


	5. In the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sam is coughing a lot for a long time

Three in the morning. Sam's sitting up against the headboard, every pillow in the room, plus most of their luggage, supporting him in place, staring at the parking lot lights that peep through the drawn curtains. Despite the uncomfortable position, he's drifting in and out of sleep, dreams melding with the dimly lit motel. Every time he gets near deep sleep, a coughing fit startles him out again, but exhaustion keeps pulling him back down.

His chest burns, actually burns like he inhaled hot plasma or something. The only thing that seems to help the pain is not breathing, and that's not going to work for more than a minute or so. He realizes again that he's holding his breath, and deliberately inhales, letting it out slowly through pursed lips.

My airways are open. It's OK. Wide open. They just hurt like a bitch.

And, on cue, he starts coughing again. This one lasts almost a minute and echoes off the walls, tearing at his already sore chest. The spasms seem to pound against his belly. Luckily, he threw up dinner hours ago, so he's not going to have to head for the bathroom again. Probably.

Dean's awake by now, no doubt, wants to know how Sam is. Sam would tell him, if he had a freaking voice to speak with.

There's some sort of rustling in the bathroom, and Dean brings over all three bottles of medicine. Sam shakes his head. "Already had it." Dean comments softly.

"Water?" Again Sam refuses. Even the water burns his throat and starts him choking. "We got any more apple juice?" Dean pulls open the fridge, then stops when he sees the empty bottle sitting in front of it.

Another coughing fit rips through Sam, until his eyes water from the pain. There really isn't a damn thing Dean can do to make this better right now.

Dean's shadow crosses the curtain as he moves over to sit Sam's bed and place a hand on his knee. Sam curls his hand over his brother's, and there they sit until morning.


	6. The Bronze Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is a little sick and very geeky for the Chinese New Year.

"But it's a Bronze Age tradition, Dean," Sam protested.

Dean just looked at him. "Chinatown parades are a Bronze Age tradition."

"Well, the calendar dates to the Bronze Age, a true lunisolar calendar. The only other one still in use is the Jewish calendar, and," Sam broke off to cough into a fist.

"And you're already sick, and it's like ten degrees out tonight, and there's going to be freaking fireworks everywhere and people setting everything on fire."

"Come on, Dean, Chinese New Year only comes once a year. And when was the last time we were anywhere near a Chinese community big enough to celebrate it?"

Dean sighed. Sam wasn't really sick, just had a bit of a cold, but his lungs were fairly pissed off. Still, it was the first time in weeks he'd heard his brother's geeky babble.

"If we're going to do this, you're going to wear long johns."

Ten minutes later, Sam was bundled in about six different layers, carefully winding a scarf around his neck and over his mouth to block the cold air. Dean nodded approvingly as he zipped up his own coat.

The parade route was just a few blocks from the hotel, but by the time they reached it, Dean was already doubting the wisdom of this little trip. The streets were so packed they could barely shoulder their way through the crowds, and it seemed every third person was smoking. The reek of cigarettes filled the streets and set Sam to coughing harder than before.

Still, they got there without Sam going into asphyxia, so Dean was counting it a win. They shuffled through piles of dingy grey snow, chilling their feet straight through the boots, until they finally reached Canal Street.

The first thing that happened after they reached it was that Dean hit the deck. A loud explosion had gone off just a few feet from where they were standing, and Sam… Sam was just standing there, coughing into his scarf. And… watching the fireworks. Which Dean had just ducked away from like a shellshocked moron.

With his coat now damp and muddy, Dean stood back up, trying to regain a little dignity. "Fireworks are an important part of the celebration," Sam pointed out hoarsely. His face was half-covered, but Dean could see the laughter in his eyes. "The Chinese invented them, after all. And look on the bright side, with that much rock salt on your pants, you should be safe from spirits."

Dean glared, but he couldn't hold the expression for long. He was wearing enough layers that the slush hadn't soaked through, and Sam's smiles were rare enough these days he couldn't let one go to waste.

"So tell me more about the Bronze Age. Like, is that why the holiday moves around?"

"It's a lunisolar calendar. Really ancient. The earliest civilizations in the Yellow River Valley were way before the discovery of iron, or the ability to count the exact number of days in a solar year, so the new year comes with a new moon. Just like the Jewish calendar. Most years are twelve moons long, but seven years…"

Dean let Sam's voice fade into the background, against the babble of foreign tongues. Between the cigarettes and the fireworks and the cold air, Sam would pay for this later. But it might just be worth it.


	7. It Starts With T

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: They misread the directions on the Benadryl and Sam took waaay too much. It's not dangerous, really, he's just VERY SLEEPY OF COURSE.

They're pretty sure it's a werewolf they're hunting, but after a solid week of searching, they've given up on finding any decent clues, other than the fact that it always appears in Colonial Park shortly after moonrise. With no leads on the wolf's daylight identity, they've decided to wait another three days for the next full moon and then stake out the park.

Which is why it's really not that big a deal when Sam starts sneezing his face off at the bar.

Dean just leads Sam out to the car and grabs the Benadryl. All they have this time is a children's liquid, but it should still work. "It says one spoon for little kids and two for bigger kids, so figure four for adults." He tosses the bottle to Sam, digs around in the medical kit a bit more and finds some sort of measuring device. Sam drinks it down right there in the parking lot before heading back in.

Half an hour later, Sam is slumping down in his seat and still sneezing like crazy.

"Maybe it isn't an allergy," Dean points out.

"It's allergic," Sam replies, words a little blurred. "Was getting a little hivey."

"I don't think that's a word, Sam."

"Course it is, I just said it." He snickers, sniffles wetly. "Hivey. Meds took care of that, though." He sneezes again, muffled into his sleeve.

"Where?"

"Whaddya mean where? Right here!"

"No, where are you hive…" Dean trickles off. It's not worth it, and hivey still isn't a word. The bigger question is, why is Sam so stoned? He's not feverish, and he's still on his first beer, so he isn't drunk, which means…

"Sam?"

Another muffled giggle. "Yeah?"

"How much Benadryl did you take?"

"Four spoons, like you said." Sam turns his head over his shoulder and sneezed again.

"Teaspoons or tablespoons?"

"Starts with T," Sam mumbles.

Given that the label insists the medicine should be measured in teaspoons, Dean figures Sam used the wrong one. Which means he's probably taken three times the normal adult dose.

"Well," Dean says slowly, "You're about twice the weight of whoever they probably based the doses on. And it's pretty hard to die of a Benadryl overdose, anyway. But don't think you're getting the car keys tonight. Or the pool cue."

Sam looks ready to take root, there in the corner of the booth. His nose is starting to turn pink from rubbing napkins against it, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"Stay put," Dean orders, then heads up to pay for their meal. It's probably best to get Sam back to the room before he actually falls asleep, because Sam is freaking heavy, and asking the bouncer to help carry him to the car could be embarrassing.

*****************

 

Luckily, it appears that Sam is perfectly capable of walking, as long as Dean keeps him pointed in the right direction. And supplied with enough napkins.

Once he deposits Sam on the bed, Dean realizes he's going to have to go out again, soon. The sniffling is not letting up, despite the Benadryl overdose, which means Sam's going to need some real tissues if he doesn't want a burned nose. And if he's still suffering in the morning, he'll want more antihistamines. The non-drowsy kind.

So, Dean's going to have to hit a store before they all close. He switches on the TV, orders his brother to stay put. Sam's slumped on the bed like a puddle, glaze eyed and quiet, so staying put shouldn't be too much of a challenge.

Finding a couple boxes of good tissues and a pack of antihistamines isn't much of a challenge, either. But when he gets back to the motel, he finds his brother standing outside, leaning against the door.

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

"Wanted t' see if you were coming," Sam mumbles, inspecting his shoes. "Got locked out."

"Okay, Sammy. Well, lucky for you, I actually grabbed my key before leaving the room."

Sam holds his hand up. There's a motel key in it.

"Key didn't fiiiit." He scrubbed at his nose again, this time with his jacket sleeve.

Dean shakes his head. "First of all, that's gross and makes you look like a six year old. Second, I told you to stay put."

"Put." Sam echoes, giggling.

Gently, Dean pulls him off the door and leans him against the wall so he can open the door without dumping his stoned brother on the floor. For the second time, he guides Sam on to a bed. This time, he turns back the blankets and removes Sam's shoes. As a final precaution against wandering, Dean engages the security chain. Once Sam is sober enough to work that, he should be sober enough to go out.

Obediently, Sam slides into the bed, blows his nose a couple times. A few minutes later, he's out snoring softly from the congestion.

Sam will be fine. The drugs should wear off by morning, and the allergy attack should stop once they blow town, it almost always does. But the deep, peaceful sleep on his brother's face is something Dean sees far too seldom.

It's a long, long time before Dean turns out the lights and follows him into sleep.


	8. The Man's Kitchen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sam is sick (flu, pneumonia, whatever). He hasn't felt well enough to eat over the past few days, but now all he wants in the world is a milkshake. Only problem? It's Christmas. Milkshake-selling places are closed. Dean is creative and/or goes to great lengths to be an awesome big brother.

Three days. Sam hadn't put a thing in his mouth but water and a bit of apple juice. The mere suggestion of soup the day before made his already pale face turn a bit green. So, Dean kept him sipping water, added a few pills if Sam would take it, and made sure the fever didn't cook his little brother's brain.

That was that, until he woke two hours earlier, hoarse and exhausted but with the fever finally down. And insisting that the one thing he could possibly eat was a milkshake. Not some awful imitation from a fast-food joint, a real one made with just milk and chocolate ice cream.

It wasn't a terribly complicated request, and under normal circumstances Dean would be able to come up with one, even in this bumfuck town.

Unfortunately, Sam's stomach had chosen to wake up on Christmas Day. After an exhaustive search of the town's 13 commercial establishments, Dean found a single convenience store that was open. And, wonder of wonders, it carried milk and ice cream.

Still, he needed some kind of blender. Dumping a scoop of ice cream into a plastic cup of milk was not going to cut it.

He hauled the food back to the motel and buried the ice cream in the snow, then went looking for a blender. On Christmas morning, in a no-tel motel. The owner had collected advanced payment from him the previous day, and Dean was fairly certain the guy had locked up the office and left directly afterward.

The office door was far too prominent to risk picking the lock, but he went around the back and peered in the window. The owner had a bedroom there, but no kitchen of any kind.

Next to the window, though, there was a second door, labeled, "Utilities." This lock yielded to Dean's fingers quickly.

**************

It was a peculiar whirring sound that woke Sam from his morning nap. He blinked, knocking the sleep from his eyes, then coughed a few times, trying to clear the gunk out of his throat.

He was still feverish, that had to be it.. He couldn't possibly be seeing his brother nailing a bowl to the top of the dresser with a power drill.

At the sound of his coughing, Dean looked up. "Woke up just in time for breakfast. At noon. Well done, Sammy!"

"Dean," he whispered, trying to be heard over the drill, "What are you doing?" Trying to talk was a mistake, apparently, as it set off another bout of coughing.

"Making a milkshake. You wanted one, remember?"

Sam managed to quit coughing and tilted his head, not daring to speak again.

"I couldn't find a blender, but I managed to find this power drill and build a mixer attachment."

The whirring shut off. Dean poured the bowl's contents into a coffee mug and handed it to Sam.

Sam eyed it uncertainly. It looked like a milkshake. It even smelled like a milkshake. But it was made with a beat-up old power drill.

"I washed the mixer," Dean said defensively.

Sam lifted the mug.

"Remember that Home Improvement episode?" Sam croaked. "With the Man's Kitchen?"

Dean grinned. "Shut up, save your voice and drink your damned milkshake."

Sam followed orders. It felt really good going down.


	9. Chez Realtor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sam is sick. Dean runs him a bath. Maybe they could be squatting at a place like they did in 1.08 and it has a giant tub so that they can both fit.

The last credit card stopped working two days ago, and when he looked in the post office box in Chicago, the new ones hadn't come in yet. Or maybe they'd been seized. He'd have to be careful, coming back in to check that box again. For now, leaving aside the fifty in seed money for the next poker game, they had fifteen dollars and sixty-three cents, which would buy a couple meals, if they weren't picky.

But Dean's real problem was sitting in the passenger seat. Sam had been sniffling for a few days, but a night in the chilly car had apparently allowed the bug to really take hold. He was coughing with a nasty, harsh sound, a little wet, and his cheeks were flushed red, though he wouldn't let Dean check his temperature.

In short, Sam needed a warm place to sleep, and he needed it now. Which was why Dean was house-hunting.

There. For-sale sign. Secluded location, not so big it would have serious security, but big enough it might actually be heated even empty.

He parked half a block away and went around the back to break in.

He was greeted with the barest touch of heat, but the thermostat immediately responded when he turned it up. The lights worked, and there was no alarm. There was even a table in the kitchen, covered with a designer tablecloth, so maybe…

A bed. With actual blankets. Dean Winchester had hit the empty-house jackpot.

He opened the garage and pulled the car in. Sam, drowsing in the passenger seat, coughed and raised his head.

"Chez Realtor again?" Sam whispered hoarsely, sarcasm coming through despite the swollen vocal cords.

"Chez Realtor at your service!" Dean grinned.

Sam wandered in and sat down at the kitchen table, dropping his head into his hands and leaning his elbows on the designer cloth, shivering a bit.

"There's a bed upstairs," Dean offered.

Sam waved him off. "Just lemme sit for a minute." He rubbed at his nose. No doubt the heat coming up was making it tickle.

Sometimes his little brother could get damned stubborn when he was sick. Which came in handy when he, say, got out of bed with a 103 fever just to save Dean's ass. But when no one's ass needed saving except possibly Sam's own, it was a wee bit inconvenient.

"Well, you're kind of dirty."

"Yeah, back atcha." Sam rasped, setting off another coughing fit. Dean winced at the sound of it.

"Well, anyway, I think there's hot water in this house, and neither of us has had a shower in over two days. Shall we?"

On the way up the stairs, Dean managed to crowd in closely enough to get a hand on Sam's neck. He was definitely feverish, but it wasn't high enough to be serious. The look Sam gave him at the top of the stairs suggested his sneaky temperature reading wasn't sneaky enough, but Dean had no fear of his brother's Death Glares. Even when artificially enhanced with fever glaze.

They reached the bathroom together, dropped their duffels. Dean pulled out the spare towel he usually kept around…. and stopped. In the far corner of the bathtub was one of the most glorious tubs he'd ever seen. It was bigger than some beds he'd slept in over the years, complete with jacuzzi jets.

Sam was already staring at it, naked longing in his eyes as he shivered.

"Okay, rinse off the stink first," Dean ordered. "Real quick."

Thirty seconds later, Sam was minimally clean and sitting in the tub as it filled with warm water. Dean wrapped the bathmat around his shoulders to keep him warm.

"Oh!" Dean said aloud, then ran to the basement to turn up the water heater before the hot water could run out.

When he came back, Sam was lying almost completely flat in the warm water, head propped against the side of the tub. He coughed, softer and wetter this time, as if the steam was beginning to move the congestion out of his chest.

When Dean reappeared, he opened just one eye.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think you can let me finish my bath like a big boy?"

"Sure." Dean figured he could leave him alone for at least ten minutes before Sam was at any real risk of falling asleep. There wasn't a microwave downstairs, nor any pots, but the oven worked, and he managed to re-heat the foil-wrapped chicken. About the time it finished, he heard Sam dragging himself out of the bathtub, then blowing his nose repeatedly.

When they left, Sam made up the bed again, with perfect hospital corners, and turned the heat back down.


End file.
